


Plundering History

by Orthodoxia



Series: Guilty tales from the Mojave wasteland [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Also looking for treasure, Courier being Courier and lording over New Vegas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orthodoxia/pseuds/Orthodoxia
Summary: Prelude to ‘Smells Like a Heist’.Courier Six is on the search for the fabled city of Sierra Madre, for the treasure it holds is indispensable to her plans. While this is a priority for her, she also has to deal with a couple of people because, as it turned out, the position she had ‘inherited’ from Mr. House has a lot to do with management of property.





	1. Too old, still too advanced.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Prelude to ‘Smells Like a Heist’.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

 

_The Courier, with the aid of Yes Man, drove both the Legion and the NCR from Hoover Dam, securing New Vegas' independence from both factions. With Mr. House out of the picture, part of the Securitron army was diverted to The Strip to keep order. Any chaos on the streets was ended, quickly. Chaos became uncertainty, then acceptance, with minimal loss of life. New Vegas assumed its position as an independent power in the Mojave._

*

In the Mojave no other kind of weather existed but hot, scorching days with not a single measly cloud in sight. Adding to the irony was the fact that despite the sheer number of windows not a single one in the Lucky 38 could be opened. It had something to do with the hazardous combination of height, strong winds and a high risk of unintentional suicide. As one would expect, Mr. House had air conditioning installed back when the building was first constructed. By now it was two centuries old and of questionable functionality, because Mr. House had no need for it. His plan involved spending the rest of his long life in a life-support chamber. If anything, its purpose was to be there for any potential henchman he had planned to install in the ‘Presidential’ suite.

Regardless, the best option she, the new proud owner of Lucky 38, was left with, bar deliberately vandalizing her new home in a sad attempt to fix the ancient cooling appliance, was to rely on less clothing. She was already down to a pair of shorts and something so short and torn that it could barely be called a shirt. She hated that feeling, of sweaty skin against centuries old leather. More precisely, that moment when you try to get up from one of those damned well preserved leather sofas.

So, armed with the knowledge that having several floors worth of concrete above her head would do wonders to keep the heat out, Guilty was determined to spend the better part of her days in the blissful coolness of her chilly basement. And for her purposes she was glad that for the tower’s vault, built into the foundations and consisting of a massive underground storage facility for securitrons, Mr. House had also found time to provide - in addition to a large firing range, a bunker filled with armed robots and a nuclear reactor - for a lab and a repair shop.

For the nth time in the past month she had taken her place in front of the main console identical to one in the penthouse. Yes Man’s ever-cheerful face looked down on her from the large monitor. Two of four lesser monitors sported various diagrams, changing in rapid succession. Yes Man was going over data she had brought on her Pip-boy at speeds she could hardly imagine. Pale halogen lights lit the room, some suspended from above and a few that still worked, from the corners. On the floor in-between them were scattered the parts and remains of one ingenious machine Guilty had been obsessing over ever since she learned of its existence. Off to the side was a table with blue design sheets spread across it – printouts of the slideshow from the monitors.

This machine in particular didn’t have a chance to see the light of day in the Old World. Not publicly, at least.

“Fascinating!!” Yes Man’s happy face yelled excitedly – because there was no other Yes Man but the excited Yes Man – from the screen above her. “This vending machine is in fact a self-contained _matter transformation device!_ ” The screen danced with static for a moment as he readjusted his excitement. “It can recreate any item – limited by the templates stored in its memory – by using chips as a battery and source of raw material for the created goods! Genius! Absolutely brilliant!”

A pair of securitrons mulled about helping her sort out the parts. One was carefully separating them to match the schematics. Both would wobble whenever he put emphases on some fact or another.

“It can also take certain items and transform them back into said chips. The customer would make a selection through a holographic interface that displayed the item being purchased,” he continued, displaying various parts of the machine on his screen and showing how it should function in theory. “This machine demonstrates something astounding about pre-War civilization. Observe:” He demonstrated how the machine should work with a funny little pre-war cartoon show. People from the Old world seemed to be so fond of the Vault boy mascot, that they shoved him just about everywhere and into everything. “The chips are not some form of nanotech feedstock, just simple alloys of common and fissionable elements. And it uses nuclear fission to process this material, not only into tools, but _edible food and even prescription chems!_ ” Yes Man sounded almost giddy with all the information he was unveiling.

“According to production logs, these were finalized just weeks before the bombs fell,” Guilty said looking over the date on the scientists’ reports. She drummed her fingers across her bare arms and rubbed her hands, wondering how odd it was that the Think Tank of Big MT had developed technology that could have stopped the never-ending Resource War dead in its tracks, but was commissioned by a wealthy entrepreneur for his private resort instead of the government for, well, them.

“Just think about the unimaginable prosperity that civilization was right around the corner from when the bombs fell.” Only Yes Man could sound so happy talking about how mankind managed to destroy itself, and spectacularly so. The really tragic thing was, there had been an opportunity for survival, and then some, and still they never even attempted to grab onto it.

_‘Too little, too late to stop the bombs,’_ the Courier shook her head. There’s always more to war than need for resources. “We’re in a casino. Wanna take a bet on what they would use the matter-transformation for?”

It wasn’t a hard guess.

Weapons. Guns. Bombs. An arsenal that would have made Boomers blow up with envy.

“Funny how you humans are willing to take a rope and hang yourselves instead of making - oh, I don’t know... a ladder to climb out of the pit,” the AI droned from above, as if lost in his own calculations.

“ _Us_ hanging ourselves over and over is what got you created today.”

“Hey, you don’t hear me complaining!”

She picked up something that looked like a cylinder-shaped light bulb. It was connected to the box where chips were deposited. From the amount of chips given, it depended what item could be transformed and materialized. And that also meant the amount of energy necessary to perform transformation varied. So, how much energy did it eat up then?

Guilty wasn’t a scientist. She was learning, and she was willing to learn, but it would take a lifetime of diligent studying to be able to match any knowledge from before the War. She doubted she’d ever be able to go toe-to-toe with the Think Tank or Yes Man or even venerable old Mr. House, but she liked being able to tell when she was being sold radioactive brahmin-shit.

She made sure that the only trips she took to the basement were of the educational sort.

“These vending machines would be one hell of an asset for us.” She stood up, stretching her legs and circling the parts laid out on the floor. “We’d no longer depend on the Great Khans for their chems, and we could easily bind the Followers to Vegas with a steady supply of clean, unspoiled and never before used medical supplies.”

There were so many things she had to look into before she could even consider them an option for her plan to make Vegas self-sufficient, a hub of commerce and continuous flow of caps. The top of the list being: _find a vending machine that actually **works**!_

“Oh! You mean we can cut them off from their only source of income in the area and have them slowly die of starvation?! I’ll do it! Sign me up!”

A Securitron with Yes Man’s face wheeled about and unrolled another schematic. With a little more delight to its movements than usual, she noted.

“Hush. They act as a perfect buffer between us and the NCR.”

There was a dramatic sigh from the monitor. “I suppose brutal eradication of their women and children _is_ better than giant scorpions just eating them as they crawl through the desert, thirsty and starving. You’re absolutely correct.” The monitor somehow managed to look deep in thought. “Did I thank Boone for all his hard work yet?”

Yes Man _would_ look at the whole incident as a good thing.

“I don’t think he’d appreciate the sentiment. Now,” she steered the conversation back from the uncanny valley, “we need to see about assembling enough of them so we can always have necessary items in stock. Especially when the time comes and competition starts lacking them.” In the cool half-light of the basement Guilty’s eyes had that special twinkle, as she already plotted ways upon ways to ensure said competition’s lack of resources.

“Oh-hoh! I knew it! We’re not gonna make them public!”

Guilty snorted. That would be a colossally stupid move on her part. People would shoot instead of waiting in line or kill for a handful of chips. Or they would try to carry off the machine in the dead of night. And all that’s not even accounting a possible all out war with the… well, anyone and everyone who didn’t have it and wanted it. The NCR especially would indiscriminately kill, pillage and burn their way to get their hands on technology that allowed matter replication.

“There’s no point stirring up the pot. They’ll just be happy to have fresh, non-irradiated food and clean bandages.” She paused, wheels whirling in her head as she tried to see all the pitfalls of her plan. “Not too much of course. We wouldn’t want them to get suspicious.”

“Oh yes! All of that sounds like a GREAT plan!” The flashing monitor exclaimed with gusto, brightening up the entire room. “Except for the part that it’s not working,” he sounded almost sheepish. _Excitedly_ sheepish. Then as his mood shifted, the lights dimmed. “And we don’t know how to fix it.”

“We don’t. And the brains are focused on other things,” Courier Six sighed, feeling the weight of the problem. Not to mention that Big MT needed some extensive renovation before any lab, any research center, _anything at all_ in there could be considered even remotely usable.

“We know that the machine works. There are records of shipments to a paying customer.” She walked over to the large console under Yes Man’s screen and started looking through the records. “Even if there is a design flaw,” because not one of Big MT’s inventions worked as it should, “the machine had to be in working order for delivery to be made.”

She flipped the chip between her fingers. It was one of few she had brought back from Big MT. Her mechanical eye focused on the surface, taking in the precise detailing of its metal composition, the smooth texture of the emblem – the profile of a woman with a flower in her hair and the letters ‘SM’ carved into the golden surface.

“Sierra Madre…” she whispered. A myth in the wasteland. A legend to lure people to their death. Her eyes turned upwards towards the ever smiling screen. “Find it.”

“Find what?” The AI asked cheerfully.

Guilty had found herself in a conundrum. One she would not solve by sitting here and staring at the shell of a broken prototype. And she sure as hell wouldn’t locate Sierra Madre by wandering aimlessly around the desert. That’s what a highly sophisticated AI was for.

“You have records of delivery and you have maps,” she pointed at the screen. “Find me a way into Sierra Madre.”

There was a pregnant pause between them. Images of records switched in rapidly on the smaller screens.

“Sure! One mythical death-trap of a place coming right up!” Yes Man exclaimed joyfully and paused as he watched her jump to her feet and pick up her empty coffee cup from the console. A sure sign she was done for the day. “Are you going someplace nice?”

“The Strip,” Guilty pulled on a proper shirt.

“The Tops?!” Yes Man, driving one of the securitrons, asked rolling over to her side. As if she had not just given him the monumental task of finding an exact location of a myth. “Are they up to no good? Do they need reminding? _Reprimanding_?” He asked giddily, almost as if he was looking forward to rolling into the Tops, lining up the family along the wall and making music only Yes Man, and a select few others, would call sweet.

“I need to make my rounds.” After all, marking their territory is an important part of any predator native to the Wasteland. Guilty grinned. Wouldn’t want anyone to get too uppity about their place in the food chain of New Vegas. She hopped over and picked up the belt with weapons, then paused. She was missing something.

Right. Pants. She needed to go and get those. She groaned and cursed thinking about having to go back up to the oven that was the top floors of the tower where her clothes were.

“It’s always good to hand them just enough rope to hang themselves with,” Yes Man nodded knowingly. “And! Early morning inspection is the best kind of way to enforce law and order!” Like mobile refrigerators, securitrons buzzed about and around her, busily cleaning up the floor. The AI never had any real need to look directly at the electrical components.

Early? Guilty frowned at his jovial tone. It couldn’t be that early. She had meant to spend the hottest part of the day down here and judging by the headache setting in, she had managed just fine to stare at disassembled machine parts and at the screens for hours now. Guilty rubbed her neck and the back of her head. Now that she paid more attention to it, she did feel kind of sore.

“What time is it?”

“Seven twenty-four AM!” At her absolutely dubious expression, stunned silence and mouth just a tiny bit agape, Yes Man coughed, “Yeah, you’ve been kind of obsessing the entire night. Again.”

“Yes Man,” she sighed, “you could have snapped me out of it _anytime_.”

“I could have,” he said, sounding very smug. “But then you would have left earlier and where would we be?” The pair of securitrons paused in their movements, looking at her. The Courier glanced at them and immediately they scurried off. Pant-less or weapon-less, there was one person in the Mojave no one tampered with – even if you had direct control over the largest army this side of the Dam.

“With our progress!” Yes Man added in an innocent tone that wasn’t innocent at all.

Guilty turned her eyes up to the screen and they engaged a staring contest – screen and sensors to flesh and cybernetics. “Is your neuro-computational matrix working properly, Yes Man, because that wasn’t _very nice_ of you.”

“Well, see… you were so deep into it and looked so happy doing it, that you wouldn’t have noticed it even if I had told you! Which I didn’t. But, hey! We made a breakthrough, didn’t we?!” That might have been an eye roll and a snort from the AI mixed in all those happy exclamations.

“Ever since you took that holotape…” she shook her head walking over to the elevator.

“Hey. Not my fault you don’t empty your trashcan.”

“A trashcan you played in like a two-year-old in a sandbox. Muggy has more sense than that!”

“There’s no need to stoop to personal insults, boss,” he admonished, like he was being the _reasonable_ _one_ here. “Or bring the pocket-sized mess of programming into our affair-”

“ _Yes Man._ ”

“Fine! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the time. I’m certain you could have spent a few hours on a beauty sleep. Please punish me until your vengeance is sated!”

There was a very long moment of silence.

Really, they’ve had this conversation a hundred times now. And they’ll probably have a hundred more. Downloading a program that wasn’t even meant for him was... well, Yes Man was passive-aggressive to begin with. As long as he wasn’t working against her and didn’t take a page out of Wrangler’s book and repurposed one of the protectrons from upstairs…

Yeah… Guilty let out a long, tortured sigh. She might have to do something about it sooner rather than later.

“Just call me if you find anything.”

She wasn’t mad at him, more disgruntled with herself for letting the time slip past her like that and letting him get the upper hand because of it. In the wastes, that kind of careless behaviour could’ve spelled a quick death for her. Though, considering how she had been acting lately, she would’ve stayed all night with or without Yes Man acting as an alarm clock.

The elevator door opened with a ‘ding’.

The ever-cheerful securitron bobbed up and down on his mono-wheel, “Right-y-o!”

The moment she stepped into the elevator she felt the heat of the dry air that never seemed to leave the elevator shaft. “And we really need to fix that air conditioning!” She called out to the securitron.

Yes-Man, if possible would have cocked his head and had an even wider grin plastered across his screen, “Sure thing, boss! Just as soon as you find the time to squeeze in some tight places and scrub the pipes.”

She threw one scorching glance at him just as the elevator doors closed.

It was a bloody fortune that the AI was restrained to the body of a TV on a single wheel. Who knew what kind of chaos he would try if he had one of those all-too-rare human-looking robot bodies.

*


	2. Here comes the new Boss. Same as the old Boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

Just like Yes Man informed her so joyfully, it was very early morning when she stepped out. The sunlight was ever so slowly spilling over the tall buildings and the heat was not far behind. Coolness of the night - the one she had wasted in the basement - was giving away to what was going to be another in a long line of hot days.

Glaring colours of neon light that usually adorned the old hotel buildings have long since died down, unmasking the truth of half-repair and dilapidation left behind by, if not by bombs then the trampling foot of time. She made a mental note to get to it as well. She couldn’t well have her home fall apart.

 _Her_ home.

...Strange to think so of any single place.

The New Vegas Strip.

Officially it was known as the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas.

Unofficially, and given the tendency of the three families trying to tear into at each other’s throats at any given opportunity, it might as well have been just another war zone. There were rules, but dead bodies piled up all the same. Mr. House may have taken the tribes from the wasteland, but he couldn’t take the wasteland out of the tribes. Housebreaking took longer than just a few of years of wearing fancy suits. The benefit of late Mr. House’s plan for a permanent residence on top of Vegas was that he could have kept a watchful eye over them for as long as it was necessary.

In spite of that, Guilty had a habit – certain doctor had called it a bad one – of being absent from Vegas for long stretches of time. Her justification begun and ended with the statement, that she couldn’t very well be a _Courier_ without walking the wastes. Going from one end of the wasteland to the other; this place which was teeming with objects and trinkets from the Old World. From junk to treasures, from horror stories to miracles of life – and of it, the things that could fit, inevitably ended in her bag. Another bad habit she kept feeding, someone would say. That other bunker of hers was becoming tighter with space with each trip she took. The walls have definitely become less visible.

But the downside of her free roaming lifestyle was that her absence was bad for business. It was bad for stability of the region. It endangered New Vegas’ independence, and the big army outside the city’s walls mattered little - because it was the _name_ , _Courier Six_ , that the surrounding nations were wary off. Like the myth of the Burning Man, like the elusive but ever present Mr. House before her, names held power. It mattered little that both of these men could have easily passed for shrivelled mummies, though mistaking them for such was tantamount to a death sentence.

Despite knowing that she had to show her face around to let everyone know that _‘no, she had not gone and gotten herself eaten in the middle of a wasteland’_ or _‘had decided to take over a different shiny city’_ , Guilty still maintained that it was a nuisance having to piss on every corner, marking her territory each and every time she came back home.

Like she had been doing for the past couple of weeks.

Today though, there was more to this walk than just making rounds. Her mind was buzzing like a cazador nest and it needed to be cleared of hasty thoughts.

Of how much she wanted the vending machine to work.

And how much she _needed_ it to work.

Yes Man was right. She was obsessing over the box too much. So, downtime it was. Depending how long it will take him to go through notes and do all the logistics, she might even have time to visit Westside. That could help distract her for a little while at least.

Loud bark caught her attention. Rex was lazing about and scratching his ear in front the Lucky 38. Yes Man must have let him out over the night. He let out a happy bark and practically scrubbed her face clean as she crouched down to greet him. He was her puppy – big and fuzzy and adorable. With teeth and robot parts. Although, that Legion paint really needed to go

“Were you exploring and having a good time, boy,” she asked and the cyberdog jumped in her arms, craving a hug. She indulged him, and herself, before shushing him down where he yawned, made a circle and laid with a lazy flop. “Not planning to go anywhere yet, eh?” As an answer he stretched on the ground splaying his paws in front of him. He yawned and huffed. Yeah, he was thoroughly set on enjoying what little coolness remained for the day.

When it came to company, ED-E and Rex were the one permanent part of her group. It was a calculated choice on her part. When it came to trudging through wastes nothing could beat a mobile working and reloading bench, one which could unload ammo faster than a Gunrunner factory working in three shifts. Add to that heightened sensors that could spot a molerat underground, and the little eyebot’s presence was nothing to sneeze at. Sometimes, she liked to travel with people. Other times, she craved silence and precision. Now, Boone could technically pass all three of her requirements at the same time, but far too often she felt like she was taking a man along who was all too eager for a death sentence.

She sighed, hoping he was doing well on the caravan trail, or staying alive at least. Cass was there to keep him in line, but still... She shook her head of such thoughts. They were on the road, and so, they would either stay alive and she would see them again soon, or go mad and die – that was the way of the wasteland.

With no other way to go but forward, and her dog ditching her in favour of a cool breeze, Courier Six stretched her arms and back muscles, dragged her fingers through her shoulder-length copper hair and let it fall messily in all directions like a crown of wires. It was time for her to act like the overseer of New Vegas that she was.

Or have fun.

That could work too.

And now, standing at the crossroads of the strip, Courier Six was trying to decide which way to go first. To her right was the fountain of the _fine establishment_ of Ultra-Luxe - a most majestic display and a lesson on how to waste water. It was the most popular place for just about every drunkard who rolled out of a casino. To her left were the fiery pits of Gomorrah, with more sex and drugs than even the NCR army could’ve spent caps on. Now, when it came to Strip, Gomorrah was rough around the edges and coarse, offering sleazy sex for sale. Top of the attractions list was prostitution, then booze and drugs, and finally gambling. The casino’s entire theme was that of excessive debauchery.

The other casinos believed themselves to be refined, but in truth, the entirety of the Vegas was like that – it just had a different paint jobs done for different areas.

To be completely honest, she didn’t care to visit either one of them – what could she possibly find this early – but as she was passing by the most colourful of the three, the Tops, her eyes were drawn to the panel in front, listing all of the performances in the Aces theatre. She hadn’t been to any for a while now and from where she was standing it looked shorter by a name than before.

Guilty arched an eyebrow as she noticed that a name was absent, one that usually had the prime time of showing at 8pm.

Where the hell was Bruce Isaac?

*

If pre-war books were to be believed, the Tops casino was right out of Las Vegas' rat-pack era. She counted it as the most hospitable of the three. They were far from paragons of honour, but at least they were not cannibals or sex traffickers. And when that’s the best thing one could say about one of three biggest families running the place, you know that the Strip’s a powder keg waiting to be set on fire.

At first glance it wasn’t so bad. Usually, Frank Sinatra's music played softly in the background to the clinks of slot machines. Every evening she had visited the Tops, security was always tight, with Chairmen out front to collect patrons' weapons before they’d took a single step inside. Not even she was exempt from that rule. Mornings, it seemed, there was no frisking to be found.

Quite disturbing how easy it was to get in.

This early, the casino was dead quiet, with silence that stretched far into corridors and back rooms. There was no sound of roulette, cards shuffling or, loudest of it all, gamblers. Looking around she noted the size and how spacious the place looked with no one in sight and how much its interior had decayed over two centuries – plaster coming off of the walls, mold in corners of the ceiling and burnt carpet cleverly concealed by chairs or large pots. Taste of alcohol, sweat and rot mixed in the air.

The taste and smell of New Vegas.

She walked past the circular desk in the lobby - Swank was nowhere in sight; understandable considering even the whores were asleep at this hour. Beyond was the casino proper, with a main hall to the right as one entered and a smaller section just behind the main staircase, and further beyond the stairs and the smaller casino section was the elevator bank, which had a single working elevator.

The theatre was up the stairs.

The Aces was set up like a traditional lounge theatre - at least that’s what it said in the old printed tourist guide. There was a bar in the left corner, booths and tables to sit and a stage in the front. Usually, a number of drunkard and gamblers could be located here, nursing their empty pockets and broken dreams.

As she pushed forward into the darkened room she could hear the faint noise coming from behind the curtain. They were probably doing some work backstage. Just as the thought of people being up and about passed through her mind, lights flared up bright and in her face and the shadow of a man cut through from top of the stage.

“Hey hey! Welcome, welcome, welcome to the finest entertainment experience in New Vegas!”

Tommy Torini - talent manager, show scheduler and all-around man in charge of this fine theatre. Her eyes narrowed, more at the stage lights than at the man.

“Even your entertainers drop the act this early in the morning, old man. And while we’re at it... why _are_ you here and not buried under three hookers?” He jumped down from the stage and walked towards her, trademark entertainer grin on his face. It was only enhanced by the eye patch. He had the needed charisma to be up on the stage.

“You’ve got a timing of a top class performer to show up right when I need you, baby, because we need to talk about some acts.”

“Ah. Again?” There never was a time when Tommy wasn’t on the lookout for some new acts to spice up his theatre. She just didn’t think he would go back to her for it.

The Courier sighed letting her right hand rest on his shoulder. Tommy’s eyes slid, briefly and quickly, from her face to her arm and back. Her palm was light but there was unnatural strength at the tips of her fingers that made Tommy Torini nervous. Everything about Courier Six made people nervous.

Her skin was smooth and without scars, her teeth fixed - perks of her personal auto-doc in the Sink. More important was that the injury that cost her an eye was also efficiently whisked away, while adding a few enchantments to boot. The only telltale of the fact was a stark skin discoloration – sun-kissed against deathly pale. It all added to her overall look that didn’t quite blend in with the rest of the population, and New Vegas was as mishmash of all walks of life.

“What were your _exact_ words?” She said drawing his attention back. “‘ _Damn, baby, you bringing in so many acts the Rad Pack's taking half the night off!’_ ” Somehow she got the tone just right. “You were _very vocal_ about it.”

“Heh. You know the crowd in this town,” he let out a well performed laugh. “They want all new, all the time.”

“So what happened to Bruce? He wasn’t around long enough for boredom to settle in,” her hand dropped from his shoulder and she leaned against the bar. Tommy shrugged.

“New Reno came calling.”

“It always does.” Slow smile had spread across her face. Ah, New Reno... And the associated murders that came along with it. She looked back at the man. “What about you? Last I heard, you were still singing. Or have the shoes of the headline act finally become too tight and uncomfortable?”

“Nothing like that! Why do you have to be so cruel?” He made an effort to look genuinely hurt. It didn’t hold. “But the slot is empty and I need to fill it with something. Preferably with something for those who came in to listen to some quality singing.”

“With the number of people that pass through Vegas, I’m surprised that you’d have me go out into the wilds to wrestle you in a singer. What happened with auditions? People flocked to the Strip after the whole Dam business was done and over.” She eyed the aging face of a man that was trying to slink back – if not in body, then in spirit. “The Tops is doing auditions, correct?”

“We were trying to keep it low key,” he sighed, hands stuck in his pockets and one foot tapping to an unheard rhythm. “Swank’s been tightening up the security lately. Too many new faces. It’s the Omerta thing - don’t worry, we’re handling it,” he added quickly.

“So there’s a reason why the reception is empty? Huh. That has to be some intricate plan to keep the mole out. You’ll have to share it with me.” She might have been just a tiny bit smug.

Tommy rubbed his eyes and muttered out a curse under his breath. “...son of a... I’ll have a word with Swank.” His mask of entertainer was dropping, maybe due to tiredness of both the nightly work and people he had to work with, or maybe there was more going on behind the scene. Tommy was well aware, as were the others, that just because Courier Six had a ‘hands on’ approach when it came to maintaining peace and steady income of caps, it didn’t mean that she wanted to handle every single little dispute the three families had. Which was good, because the families weren’t about to allow for so much interference either.

Still, that meant that only certain kind of incompetence was allowed in New Vegas.

Her sharp eyes never left his face. He noticed one was definitely lighter in colour than the other.

“Thing is, the situation – which we’re handling– has dropped the number of people we hire to an effective zero. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking now,” – no, he really had no idea - “but with how easily the Legion almost rolled in the town last time, Swank wants to be on top of things in case shit goes south. I get his point, but personally, I think he might be overdoing on side and well... you noticed the other thing already.”

He walked over to bar and pulled one of the stools next to her out. Taking a seat in it, he leaned forward and eyed her with a calculated look, one signalling all kinds of underhanded deals that went on in a place like this. “Now, if someone were to come in here with your recommendation...” he spread his arms wide and left the words hanging. If the big mama of New Vegas herself said that someone was going to sing at the Aces, then, by all the caps flowing in the casino vault, they were going to sing at the Aces!

Guilty arched an eyebrow. She suspected there was more brewing beneath the surface, and she was eager to find out what. Pity it was happening now, when she was so focused on other things. Though, depending on how fast or slow the mystery develops, she might have the time to run to and back from Sierra Madre just in time to unravel it.

Now, as for Tommy’s plea... it did relegate her to another errand job, but for the moment she was fine with it. She liked delivering messages. It took her places.

“Fine. No promises I’ll catch anything good though,” she shrugged, letting a bright smile spread across her face.

“You’re the best, baby!” For a brief moment he was tempted to give her an enthusiastic pat on her back, but she had already started towards the exit.

“And Tommy, maybe someone should tell Swank to take a chill pill before he starts wearing chequered suits,” Courier Six said with a small wink on her way out.

Yeah. Because everyone and their mother know what happened to the last guy.

*


	3. Friends? Yeah. Kinda. Sorta... They manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

Light breeze rustled through her hair as Courier Six sat on a half demolished wall in one of the smaller alleyways behind the hotel. Busily chewing on her lower lip she tinkered with her pip-boy, zooming in, then out, a click and a ‘whoosh’ noise accompanying each screen change.

She was looking over the map of Vault 21.

Back in the day and right after he kicked all the Vault dwellers out, Mr. House had the lower levels filled with concrete. Nowadays, they were inaccessible except for the maintenance level, and that could only be accessed from the basement of the Tops, where the Chairmen once tried to break in. They only managed to get to a long hallway with a few small rooms branching off of it, but it turned out to be more than enough for Benny, because one tunnel in particular led outside of Vegas. In one stroke of luck, he had fashioned himself a secret way in and out of the Strip, right under the nose of House and his securitrons.

It was a serious breach of security, one she had trouble imagining Robert House allowing to happen. Or maybe she was just putting the man on a pedestal. His intellectual prowess aside, Mr. House was still just a man. In the end, she had taken upon herself to make sure that the elevator leading to the tunnels in Benny's suite remained out-of-use.

Fortunately, despite the cement filling and later digs, it looked like some of the sensors and cameras left behind still worked.

Leaning back, she tossed her head back to look up at the sky and letting her arms rest by her side on the wall. Hands gripped the half-broken bricks tightly, and cracks on the brick on her right side deepened further under pressure. Guilty smiled sardonically, briefly wondering will one day she leave a mess behind for someone else to clean up.

Be as it may, she wasn’t about to stroll into Gammorah right after Tops and ask Cachino what was going on. He wouldn’t tell even if he knew, and she couldn’t put a pressure on him without more information. Well, at this point she was 95% certain that after the change in management, the Chairmen were going through a reshuffling of sorts.

All the families were.

All of Vegas was.

Dusting her hands off, she pulled a holotape from her pip-boy and walked over to the nearest securirton. It mechanically turned towards her, waiting for instructions. She tapped its chassis and a slot opened up for her to insert the holotape.

“Oh, joy. More work,” came the low hum from the securitron who was still wearing the face of a policeman. It was a friendly facade. Mark II upgrade was permanent.

“I wouldn’t be drowning you in work if I didn’t think you can handle it, Yes Man,” she said patting the robot’s arm. There was a low, barely audible noise suspiciously similar to a purr, but it was a machine so it could have been the engine. “Keep your eye on the prize,” she said as she turned to leave.

“When aren’t I?!” He exclaimed as the securirton returned to his programmed patrol route.

In turn, with mind still busy, Guilty made an effort to stroll from one end of the Strip’s wall to the other, taking in the state of the buildings and the road, drunkards passed out outside whichever casino had them kicked out just before dawn.

So far, it was the usual sight.

Michelangelo's workshop - a billboard shop located in the southwest corner of the New Vegas Strip and just across from the NCR Embassy - was closed. And judging from the bit of light she could see from one of the smudged windows, she speculated that Sheldon had probably fallen asleep on his work table again.

The NCR Embassy itself was closed too, albeit for different reasons. She knew what she wanted to do with the building, but before she could decide whether to convert it or not she had to see how the story between New Vegas and the Republic will further develop. Courier Six was painfully aware that with the sheer number of dead soldiers piling up the bridge between them – her doing, no lie there – the NCR could either send a new ambassador, or an army, but whatever their next step ends up being, she wanted to be prepared ahead of time.

She passed the hotel again, the train station, the radio station... and, as far as Strip went, these places were not as bad as the three main attractions. But it was when she entered the Freeside that she let out a small, calming breath.

She liked to call it: _the quiet side of her life_.

Which it was, most of the time. And unlike Mr. House, who saw this district as nothing more but a buffer zone to filter out the undesirables, she had decided to bring it under Vegas’ watchful eye.

Control used to be split between the Kings and the Van Graffs, but the latter had to abandon their business due to some unforeseen, unpaid tax matter that cropped up quite suddenly back in the NCR territory. The Courier cackled silently. She knew one could always count on bureaucracy to put a plug in someone’s business. In addition to paperwork, their temper also worked against them – they really should have thought twice before trying so brazenly to gun her down in the street, in the middle of the day. Needless to say, the Van Graffs were forced to close this branch prematurely due to the unforeseen deaths of all family members.

The King, on the other hand, was much more open to her plans for the Freeside – not that he had a clue about the half of things she had in store for the place – and the Gun Runners had a much better selection of weapons to offer. So in the end, all worked out in her favour. It was just one of the reasons why she could walk down the street today and not have to watch her back.

Her mechanical eye zoomed in on the alleyways between buildings and shadows barely visible, slinking further behind dumpsters.

...It was a work in process.

In truth, it was and still is, the main slum of New Vegas. The streets were still dangerous and lacked the lustre of the Strip. When they arrived in the region and if they had caps to afford it, people typically went straight for the three main casinos. That left ‘Freeside’, as it had then become known by locals, as an informal stopping point. Even now, many gamblers and tourists would easily find themselves being targeted by thugs looking for a quick source of caps. But not everyone was interested in loosing obscene amount of caps in pre-war luxurious casinos. Freeside could easily become the first _properly_ _civilized_ stop for traders entering the Mojave. Not to mention it would bring any fighting between the Locals and the Squatters down to a minimum.

Guilty hoped to clean the place up in time.

She also hoped Arcade was still willing to wrestle with the issue.

*

She enjoyed a quiet walk to the Followers’ hospital. Remains of old tarmac road were crunching beneath her boots and the wind was carrying voices from the nearby hospital. Thankfully, there were no more agonized cries. Even now, she was reluctant to remember the days following the second battle of the Hoover Dam, and the cacophony of pain permeating the streets of Freeside. 

The Old Mormon Fort, located just inside Freeside's north gate, remained the headquarters of the Followers of the Apocalypse in the Mojave Wasteland. And it was still the oldest standing building. They were another reason why she needed a steady flow of clean supplies. Shit would go down in Vegas if the Followers were ever to decide to leave.

The gate was wide open and the courtyard, still filled with tents, was easily viewed by anyone passing by. There were no securitrons at the Old Mormon fort. Something about Followers keeping patients that would be otherwise deemed ‘kill-on-sight’ by the local authority. And local authority in this case being either the Courier or, in her absence, Yes Man. Needless to say, not many people relished the thought of being under thumb of an AI with a not-so-hidden sadistic streak.

The Courier knew that Arcade was a force of nature when it came to saving people’s lives and keeping his patients safe, and butting heads with him on the subject was not how she liked spending her downtime in Vegas. He always had a deep-seated desire to affect society on a wide-range of matters, but he had first-hand experience with what can happen when ideals become more important than the needs of individuals. He shared the idealism of the Followers, but he also knew to be more pragmatic than some of his colleagues. He understood the post-apocalyptic world is one in which, sometimes, people just had to be shot in the head.

And he had and knew how to use a power armour to prove his point.

All this led him to take a more balanced approach to the troubles of the post-war landscape, taking up the Followers' cause to help those around him achieve independence, assisting in the effort to make the less fortunate communities become more self-reliant.

A real poster child for any rebuilding effort she might undertake.

In the end there was an agreement, of sorts, between her and Arcade: the Followers could take in and care for any patient they wanted, provided that their guests-of-ill-repute left before they became a problem.

Stepping through the Fort’s gates, she spotted him easily.

Arcade’s golden head stood out like a shiny globe in the morning sun. With his slavish devotion to his patients, there was no question whether he was up and about. Guilty made a straight line for the good doctor. It was meant to be a surprise, but he saw her and had equipped appropriately sour expression. She didn’t let it put a damper on her mood.

“How are things with Vault 3 coming along?” She asked with too much cheer.

He pushed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. It somehow managed to make him appear more serious.

“You are hopefully aware that there are still gangs roaming around? It’s not like cleaning out one vault from chem addicts had them magicked away from the entire area.” Arcade tried to gauge if she was aware that just because she was crazy enough to waltz through territory crawling with high-on-chems lunatics, others had more wits about them.

“Weren’t there securitrons involved in this project? I distinctly remember giving you a large number of them.”

“Fantastic grunts, every single one of them. And with about as much intelligence as one. Not really a long term solution to the problem.”

“Your high standards are going to be the death of another one of your projects,” she threw her hands in the air. “Julie! Talk some sense into him!” Guilty called off to the side where, in her opinion, the more sensible doctor was standing with a bag of medicine in her arms. There was a ‘Denied!’ as a replay from the other side of the courtyard. Julie may work with lunatics but this fight was too much of a high-risk endeavour even for her.

For someone highly intelligent, personable and quick-witted Arcade could still get uppity when it came to how she ran Vegas. Or that she even ran Vegas. As she saw it, and she agreed on this with late Mr. House, democracy wasn’t best form of government to flourish in what was effectively, a gambling state in a post-nuclear world.

Arcade disagreed. Vehemently so.

“That Vault is in better condition than most in the region. I was there. You were there. We’ve both agreed on it,” during and after they were done exterminating the Fiends, “how it would make for an excellent base and an actual hospital for the Followers to run. _You_ were the one who made that observation when you got stuck in that perfectly preserved room.”

“It was not _that well_ preserved.”

“A little scrubbing and a coat of fresh paint is all it takes.”

“I don’t think the entire Followers’ storage has enough antiseptic to kill all the bacteria in that butcher’s house.”

“It has fully functional front door that can be – wait for it – locked.”

Arcade opened his mouth for a cleaver retort when Julie briskly walked out of the tent, the same one she was carrying supplies in just a moment ago.

“ _You’re disturbing the patients!_ ” She hissed with that doctor-like frown. Her stern face flew from one to the other. As far as she was concerned, there were no innocent parties here. She was not going to allow herself to be dragged into this quarrel, but she would make them leave. “So, if you don’t mind, take this argument somewhere else.”

Guilty looked pointedly at Arcade. “It has soundproof walls.”

“For the love of- Come on!” He took her by the arm and headed towards the gate. As she threw a glance back at the tents she felt like he was purposefully leading her outside of the Fort.

Arcade had his secrets.

She knew that his guests-of-ill-repute were legionaries he was nursing back to health after the battle. It was going on for weeks now. If it gave him some peace of mind and the patients were sent on their merry way, on a path that led far, far away from New Vegas, she couldn’t care less what he did.

They stopped right under the large gate.

Before Arcade could say anything, the face of the nearby securitron, patrolling just outside of the fort, flashed with static and changed into that happy smile of Yes Man. Making a wild turn on his single wheel, he rolled in fast, cloud of dust and chunks of asphalt rising behind him, interrupting their argument.

“Boss! Bossbossboss! Boss!” He called wheeling over to her with the excitement of a race car.

That was quicker than expected.

With a raised hand she stopped him right before he crossed the gate. “Not here,” her eyes were still focused at Arcade. “Listen doc, I know you have your misgivings about me and my way of doing things,” he let out a snort at that, “but unless you want to let that place, so close to Vegas, become a bunker for some other gang and, for reasons unknown to me, you don’t want the Followers to settle there, then we’ll have to find a different, _better_ solution for it.” She looked towards the gates of New Vegas. “When I get back.”

Arcade was silent for a moment, then finally he nodded, “I’m sure we’ll be able to come to a solution that doesn’t end with collateral damage.” He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “Just don’t go and die in the wasteland before that. I’m willing to admit that I cannot setup a reasonable democratic system all on my own.”

It was a half-joke.

She let out a groan before heading in the direction of Lucky 38, large robot hot at her heels. Yes Man turned to wave at Arcade excitedly before following her out.

Julie approached him as she watched the Courier leave.

“Shouldn’t we tell her about, you know... the potentially threatening patient in our care?”

“He’s not the first legionnaire we’ve had here, and he’s in any position to be threat to anyone. Besides, he’ll be gone before she comes back.”

“She’s heading out?”

“It’s about time. She’s been stationary for weeks now. Frankly, I was beginning to worry about her mental state.” His words were chalk full of sarcasm. Julie could tell. What she couldn’t tell was, what it was that made the two of them butt heads all the time.

“Let’s just hope that you’re right or else we’ll have a repeat of what happened at the Dam, when she lets those murderbots road-rage across this fort.”

“I don’t think we’re quite on the same page – or in the same book as General Oliver.”

Julie eyed her colleague and friend with worry, “Can you be so sure of that? She hates that man.”

Arcade’s expression turned sombre. He knew that.

And he knew what Courier Six did to people who chose to cross her.

*


	4. Down the molerat hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: English is not my native language, therefore expect mistakes and wonky grammar.  
> Disclaimer: Fallout belongs to Obsidian & Bethesda

*

Courier Six was on her way south, heading towards what once was a no man’s land. She was making good times, walking past the Boulder city and abandoned ranger stations.

Abandoned, when they really shouldn’t be.

She let out a snort as she walked by one. It wasn’t like she hadn’t brought up the subject, time and time again, with King, with Arcade, even with Boone when he wasn’t neck deep in guilt and self-pity, sniping raiders for caravans to feel better. It didn’t matter that the securitrons were in essence radio-on-one-wheel - they alone weren’t enough to man the stations. Both sides of the wire demanded living people, with experience in dealing with other people. Her robot army was to patrol and defend Vegas – protect the independence of the Mojave and protect the people who chose to settle there.

And sure enough, some tough, capable communities have settled in this land – no other could survive the desert. But on the flip side, a good number of people who have settled have followed the military boot-prints of NCR, and expected no less than what they had back in the NCR territory. Those lazy buggers had the gall to knock on _her doors_ and demand safety from New Vegas when a random band of raiders set up a camp too close to their liking or when a group of legionaries from the now scattered Legion marched by.

Courier Six had decided that she, sure as fuck, was not going to let it slide. And once she had the vending machine and the resources it offered – a means for her to offer payment and tantalize people into stepping out of their little safety bubble – she would help build a stronger community.

To ease the guilt of the one she unwittingly helped destroy in the Divide.

Guilt, mixed with a bit of pride, was a powerful motivator.

Courier Six had a lot to feel guilty about.

*

It had taken her a couple of days to reach her destination on foot, and at times she briefly considered investing into repairing one of the better preserved vehicles. It might give Raul something to nag her about – the impossibility of the task. She chuckled. In her experience nothing was impossible, just highly improbable.

The sun hung low on the horizon, going from orange to red as it slowly sunk behind the rocky and barren edges of the wasteland, and she drank in the warmth on her skin every single day. She complained a lot but she had trekked so many times across the dusty land, sometimes she felt she drew energy from the heat.

By the time she had reached Forlorn Hope proper, night had fallen.

With no people manning the place, the former army camp was near destitute by now. These days, it was stationed with securitrons instead of the NCR troops. The Legion might have been broken into a hundred tiny pieces, but those were one hundred tiny pieces that could very well become _her_ problem again. The camp itself had the remains of tents, shacks, and abandoned train and truck hulls scattered throughout and the water creek was still running through the middle with far less trash in it. Apparently, having the only freshwater source handy and in arm’s reach didn’t stop the soldiers littering it with cigarette buds.

The robots didn’t need the cantina, or the medical tent, or the barracks. The command centre - or what was left of it after the NCR packed their bags hastily – was the only place left in use. The inside of the large tent hasn’t changed that much. The war-table still dominated the centre of the room and the only working radio was off to the side, unmanned. Not surprising considering her securitrons didn’t need to use it to send and receive messages. Unused ham radios still lined one side of the tent, while chairs, a filing cabinet and a... broken fridge filled with empty soda bottles, lined the other.

Why was that thing still here?

Shaking her head, Guilty headed straight for the middle of the room. Yes Man was there to greet her, taking temporary control over one of the securitrons. His ever smiling face stood out like a beacon in the crowd of cartoon faces of grumpy soldiers. With the Dam up and running, hopping from robot to robot posed even less of a problem for him than ever before.

“So, this is the place?” She asked looking down at the map where the small ‘x’ marked the ravine just south-east of the camp.

“Yup! Signal’s coming in nice and clear. Don’t you think it’s funny how the NCR didn’t think to investigate a strange signal right under their noses?!” He laughed. She didn’t. Then there was a moment of silence between them. “I am being sarcastic,” he added, in that same joyful tone that wasn’t really.

“You mean, other than being on the front lines and Legion occupying most of their attention and resources? Or that the signal is coming from the no-man’s-land? I bet they discouraged treasure hunting amongst their troops.”

“Lucky for us! Especially since the signal is so much easier to catch this time.”

“Elaborate, if it’s not too hard.”

Nothing was too hard for Mr. Smiley-face.

“Well, according to Mr. House’s logs, there had always been a Sierra Madre signal – you know, the one that keeps inviting people to a gala opening, yeah that one – _but_ it is only in the past five years that it has gotten clear and strong enough to reach across all of the Mojave.” Yes Man’s claw drew a circle across the map, all the way to the far end north, south and west.  Guilty nodded.

“I’ve heard it a few times, on my Pip-boy, but there never seemed to be time to go and investigate it. Not to mention it sounded like a prime example of a trap,” the Courier shrugged. Although, truth to be told, she had attempted to follow the signal a couple of times, but it always seemed to fade away or suddenly come from a completely different direction. She found it frustrating. But if it were easy to follow then the Sierra Madre wouldn’t be one of the great mysteries of the Mojave.

“Oh, you…” the AI sighed, using the same clawed hand to pet her on the head. “When has the potential of anything being a trap ever stopped you from marching right into it and having _fun_?”

Yes Man’s idea of fun was a little more homicidal than hers. He wasn’t wrong about the body count, though. Or her willingly ignoring all of the ‘trap’ alarm bells. She took hold of his hand and pushed it off her head, her cybernetic arm more than a match to his grip. “You know how it was, Yes Man. Legion this, and NCR that, orbital lasers here, personal robot army there…” the Courier shrugged and chuckled not so innocently. “So, what do you have for me?”

“Oh oh! I’ve been preparing for this!”

The light of the command centre dimmed a bit – in fact, he made sure that the only light in the tent was the one in the middle, hanging over a war table and map of the dam. He rolled himself to the opposite side of the table, the screen that was his face half in shadow and all the other securitrons settled behind him for maximum effect.

“The Sierra Madre,” he begun in a low, excited but low, voice of a narrator introducing a forbidden tale to his eager audience, “is a mythical place in the wastes, a dead city surrounded by a poisonous cloud. Many travellers in the Mojave have sought it out after claiming to have heard a woman's voice on a Pre-War radio broadcast, never to be heard from again, lured to the Sierra Madre by that same broadcast advertising the grand gala opening.”

She stared in silence, eyes narrowed at Yes Man’s expose, which sounded very much like the introduction to a horror movie. Or adventure with horror elements. Or the life she was living in general. It simply clued her in that this place will try to kill her at every corner.

“Well?” He asked after her continued silence.

“Very effective in setting the overall mood. Good job.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, sounding almost smug.

“Maybe you could pull some extra hours in the Aces.”

“I don’t think they could afford my going rate.”

Yes, smug indeed.

“Right,” she sighed. “Let’s go down and take a look.”

With that she headed out of the tent and down. True to their earlier conversation, her Pip-Boy honed in on a location south-east of camp Forlorn Hope. At the bottom of the gorge was a metal grate covering what was best described as an entrance to a draining sewage. In Vegas she’d walk right past it. The signal was supposedly, and according to all the scans and readings, coming from down there. She lowered on one knee as she focused on the lock. Opening it wouldn’t be a problem. Yes Man rolled behind her as she worked the lock.

“There better be a secret tunnel leading from this place to a fabled death trap of a city, or this will all turn out to be one colossal prank,” she said with a huff as she pulled the grate open.

“Can’t really tell from up here. Shame though,” the securitron bounced looking at what was in all likelihood a ladder. “It’s a bit tight for me to fit snugly!”

Courier’s fist collided with Yes Man’s chest.

“It’s a tiny hole in the ground! What do you expect me to say?”

Guilty hung her head. Goddamned robot. And damned her for not keeping Garret’s holotapes out of his grabby claws.

“Signal is going to be lousy in there,” she tapped his chassis where she punched him. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

He imitated the sound of a sigh. “You always say that…”

“There will be some heavy lifting to do.”

“I’m happy to be your go-to securitron! Even if you abuse me so.”

“You know the drill, Yes Man. I head out-” still holding onto top, she hopped down the ladder.

“And I make sure the Mojave does not end up conquered, blown up or painted in neon colours. Got it!” He mock saluted.

“Keep an eye on the Strip,” she added with a frown.

“I’ll be the model of discretion! As always!” In Yes Man language, that meant that no corner will be left unwatched – from deepest basement to most private toilet. Even she thought it creepy. Mr House spared no old world cash to make sure all secrets were easily accessible to him. But, she nodded at his exuberant tone. They’ve done this enough times now to have the job drilled into him. As she started to descend her face ended up around the height of his waist, he looked down at her and cocked his body.

“Huh…” he called, deep in thought and drawing her attention.

“What now?” Guilty looked up.

“You know, looking at you from this angle reminds me of all those stories Benny liked to tell about his lady friends. He was not really much of a gentleman.”

The grate closed behind her with a loud bang. Yes Man hummed happily and rolled off.

*

The bunker interior was remarkably simple compared to others she had been in - the entrance contained a set of stairs leading down, not unlike those of Mr. House under Fortification Hill, the Legion’s _former_ fort. The graffiti at the entrance read _‘Gone to Sierra Madre’_ and _‘I left my_ _♥_ _in Sierra Madre.’_

Funny how no one thought to write about coming back with great riches.

There was a Sierra Madre Casino poster on the wall near the corner of the room, stained with blood, but the ancient piece of paper was ignored in favour of the gruesome sight of headless corpse of a male right underneath it. Plain white jumpsuit that offered no protection and lack of any weapons told her that he likely wouldn’t have been here if he had had a choice.

In other words – whatever horror stories had been hovering around the legend of Sierra Madre, there was truth in them. Probably of the worst sort.

That was the second thing that set off warning bells in her brain.

The first thing that immediately became clear was that the bunker had power. And that meant that someone was using it. That meant competition. Although, depending how unhinged said person was, some form of cooperation might be in the stars.

As she headed down the stairs she pulled out her gun, and only then unlocked and pulled the old bunker door open.

_“Has your life taken a turn? Do troubles beset you?”_

Once inside, it surprised her that rather than the deafening sound of silence she had been expecting, the familiar broadcast she had been hearing on her Pip-Boy throughout the entire trip reached her ears. Guilty knew she was on the right track – one leading either to Sierra Madre or into a trap. And the air... It was not stale, untouched, as she would expect from a long forgotten bunker. But the body and power upstairs already clued her in that she wasn’t the first one to come across this place.

Whichever the case may be, for the moment the radio was an excellent cover for her footsteps.

To her right was a familiar emblem crudely painted in yellow, and she ran her fingers over the metal plate. Brotherhood of Steel? This was their bunker? Why would a signal inviting to an opening of a casino in a town long since lost, be coming from here of all places? Brotherhood, Sierra Madre… it felt so familiar? Something whirled and clicked in her mind.

_“Has fortune left you behind? If so, the Sierra Madre Casino, in all its glory, is inviting you to begin again.”_

Immediately to her right was a hallway that has been collapsed in rubble. It looked as inaccessible as it probably was.

The corridor to the left after the stairs took her to a locked door. It took hijacking the nearby terminal to get it open. Once the door has been unlocked the Courier stepped inside slowly and carefully with blaster in hand. She surveyed each corner of the room and then... she let out a sigh of surprise, followed by shriek of joy and giddiness of absolute victory, nearly dropping her weapon in the process and forgetting everything else she had been overthinking.

“Ohmigosh...!”

_“Come to a place where wealth, excitement and intrigue await around every corner.”_

There before her, in the corner of the room, glowing with a pale blue light was a vending machine. The same one she brought in pieces from the Big MT, except this one was powered up and fully operational!

Eyes wide, she took off her sunglasses and skipped over to the machine. She touched the panel with the markings of Sierra Madre and a holographic display popped up.

_“Stroll along the winding streets of our beautiful resort, make new friends, or rekindle old flames.”_

“It’s working!” Getting a hold of herself, she looked over the variety of options offered to her. There was the return-for-chips line for some of the more mundane items. “Cigars... Cigarscigarscigars...” Hastily she searched her bag and pockets. Now of all times she didn’t have any with her. Impatiently, she scanned the room, grabbed a cigarette pack from the shelf and placed it into the tray. Her hand shook when she pressed the holographic button.

In a beam of light the pack disintegrated and five chips came out from the slot.

“I got a working one!” She yelled as if yes Man could hear her from down there.

But...

How was she going to get it out? It was heavy when it was in parts and to take a whole one, she’d have to do a whole lot more modifications on herself. She looked around. Bunkers like these usually had another entrance. Emergency exit was a thing. Unless it was somewhere behind that crumbled corridor or worse, if they brought it in parts and then assembled it here!

This thought frightened her.

And also made her very, _very_ jealous.

_“Let your eyes take in the luxurious expanse of the open desert under clear star-lit skies.”_

The room also contained both a reloading and work bench, numerous crafting items, several bottles of Scotch, a chemistry set, a laser rifle, a combat knife, a T-45d power helmet...? This was a brotherhood bunker, so she wasn’t really surprised, but...

There was also a footlocker at the base of the bed and the terminal on the desk. Try as she might she could not access it. It seemed to have some kind of dead-bolt on its programming, and in all likelihood, done by the very same person who had scribbled a series of mathematical formulas on a large blackboard.

_“Gaze straight on into the sunset from our villa rooftops.”_

Someone else was here. Maybe not right now, but it was clear that someone else was interested in the technology Big MT had to offer. The _working_ technology, and not just some schematics left behind in the world that would have very hard time replicating any of it.

Guilty opened her Pip-Boy and scanned through the data, notes she had gathered on Elijah in the Big MT. Veronica called the man a genius. An inventor, a man who wanted to build new machines, instead of being content and complaisant in preserving old ones. She found a transcript of his diary page that had a lot of references to Sierra Madre.

_*Big Empty's a treasure box, a scientific graveyard of Old World misery. Like the Sierra Madre... there's treasures there, sleeping. Some, awake. The Holorifle, the Saturnite alloy... the hologram technology, hibernation chambers, Securitrons, the collars... even the suits attached to those things stalking the Villa... that's only the surface of what's there.*_

_“Countless diversions await: Gamble in our casino, take in the theatre, or stay in one of our exclusive executive suites that will shelter you and cater to your every whim.”_

Guilty shut her eyes. Another Old World enthusiast.

Hazmat suits, alloy and holograms she had seen in Big MT. She even knew of Mr. House’s hibernation chamber. Although she had no idea what he meant by ‘suites attached to things’.

Elijah, was it?

The man who caught the Think Tank off guard. His notes said he was heading to Sierra Madre. She critically eyed the room. Yes. Very possible this was his hideout. And she was jealous. He managed to get one to work!

She looked around, surveying the room, the door, the corridor beyond and the exit that was on top of the ladder, and her question got an upgrade: how was she going to get it outside of the bunker and how to do it _without_ encountering Elijah.

The answer... She could commandeer this bunker, but that would put her straight on a collision course with the former Elder. Efficient, but that wouldn’t be her first choice. And no matter what, she did need one in based in Vegas or else she would have to rely on supplies being delivered in regular intervals, and that meant possibility of discovery...

She had to think about it, long and hard.

_“So if life's worries have weighed you down, if you need an escape from your troubles, or if you just need an opportunity to begin again, join us, let go, and leave the world behind at the Sierra Madre grand opening this October...”_

The room ahead consisted of several bunk beds attached to the walls on both the left and right hand side, underneath each bed she could spot a footlocker. Situated in the centre of the room was a table, adorned with an active radio playing the Sierra Madre broadcast.

On an infinite loop. She heard the entire speech of invitation at least three times now. This was likely the origin of the signal. But did that mean that the actual place did not exist?

No, she didn’t believe that. The Legend of Sierra Madre’s lost treasure predated Elijah.

So, was it an amplifier then? Perhaps it was her _yellow brick road_ to that fabled place. But should she chance it? After all, there was a perfectly operational Vending machine right here and that was the reason why she was looking for Sierra Madre in the first place.

She slipped into the room and her hand reached for the radio.

Maybe... she could just learn where it was. No one forced her to go there today, right this instance. She could use the Vending machine, find out how it worked and how to repair twenty others she had, set her grand plan to make Vegas into something more than a gambling city-state with high walls in motion, and then she could... go and explore.

It happened suddenly, not unlike a sand storm, except she didn’t see it coming. Green fumes twisted around her like a tornado. Gas burned through her mouth, up her nostrils, and filled her lungs. Acting faster than any other drug she had ever experienced her sight clouded, head filled with fog and body became limp and heavy. She lost control of her body – mechanical parts suddenly heavy, losing her consciousness as she collapsed to the floor.

Well, shit…

Turns out, her gut was telling her to avoid this ‘death trap’ for a good reason.

_“We'll be waiting.”_

*

**Fin**


End file.
